Chin Up, Head Down
by snapslikethis
Summary: Angsty James. Beaten to a pulp James. And Professor McGonagall being her BAMF self. Based on a a headcanon I did on tumblr. Basically James/McGee feels. War feels.


Chin Up, Head Down

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a/n - This is a headcanon turned one-shot. James's POV. Not something I've ever done before but I do like it.

ack - Obvs, I own nothing.

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**an unholy hour**

The staccato rhythm of her boots-piercing clips on stone, muffled thuds on rug, pause, pivot, repeat-strikes a sharp contrast to the steady, throbbing ache reverberating in every recess of his brain.

It's been nearly a year since he's been in this chair, in her office, in deep fucking trouble, but he hasn't forgotten their roles. She needs to say her piece, and when she is finished, he'll be expected to account for himself.

He doesn't have a good defence, so he's opting for a simple version of the truth: He'd snapped.

The full truth: _Finally_ _fucking_ _snapped_, because it'd been a bloody long time coming. As those vile words spewed from that git's mouth, James felt his proverbial straw breaking, shattering, collapsing the huge, heaping pile of bullshit he'd been shouldering for the last several months.

See? Snapped.

He can't tell her any version of the truth just yet on account that she is, he estimates, only about a third of the way through her tirade.

She is angry, too, angrier than he can ever remember her being. And although she's been going strong for nearly quarter of an hour, she doesn't show any signs of slowing down. Her voice is cutting, rising and falling in a continuous, disappointed stream of _conduct unbecoming of his badge_ and _giving into provocation _and _proper channels of communication. _

Bullshit, again, just a different flavor.

It's not that he doesn't deserve it, because he does, but he cannot force himself to listen.

Normally he would try, or pretend to try-to listen, that is. He'd put on a smile, too, charm her, but tonight he's too damn tired to even feign contrition.

So he sinks further into the chair, _his _chair, slumped, face in his hands, elbows on his knees, fucking exhausted and _beaten to shit_, he thinks wryly, _both_ _literally and metaphorically_. He lets the thrumming in his brain take over.

**one hour earlier**  
He'd asked Lily, more than once, how she was able to ignore the taunts. _Practice_, she always answered with the same, sad smile, _years and years of practice_. That alone was enough to make his blood-his _pure _blood-boil, but it wasn't his place to tell her she should retaliate. She wouldn't, for one. He couldn't understand, for another, not completely. And she could handle herself; she didn't need a goddamn protector.

He could handle being insulted, too.

_Blood traitor_.

_Dumbledore's_ _Pet_.

_Mudblood lover_.

He kept his wand in check like a proper head boy_ should_, but the anger didn't dissipate completely. He could deal. He forced himself to.

After all, she dealt with much, much worse. He was sure he didn't know the half of it.

It'd been nothing new, tonight, trying to wrap up rounds. He already had the damn point deduction form mentally composed-_use of mudblood, blood traitor, five points._ He was two fucking breaths away from telling the idiot he'd caught out after hours to bugger off when that wanking, slimy, son-of-a-bastard brought _her _into it.

_Her_. This fucking amazing, fantastic girl he was pretty damn sure he loved.

The sick things he was saying…it wasn't going to fly.

It was a split second decision. _Weren't they always?_

Not trusting himself to leave it at a common jinx, he threw his wand to the ground and his fist into the arsehole's jaw. Damn it to hell if that crunch, flesh on flesh, wasn't the most fucking satisfying thing he'd heard all day.

The idiot responded with a punch of his own before he could even feel properly satisfied about it, though. His glasses had been knocked clean off his face and it was, really, a fucking free for all.

Minutes later-five, ten, he wasn't sure-and both were sweaty, bloody messes, robes torn, bruises already blooming, neither quite able to get the upper hand.

He'd never been a good fighter, wasn't sure why in the fuck he'd thought it was a good idea to start one tonight. Of course, he hadn't been fucking thinking, had he?

Then _they'd _come, the green and silver cronies, _dark marks in training_, he called them, and it was three against one.

Not that that stopped them.

He didn't stand a chance.

They beat him damn near unconscious, were just about to try out merlin knows what foul curse on him, when McGonagall happened upon them in the far recesses of the third floor corridor.

You'd think being beaten nearly half conscious would garner some sympathy, but no.

**an unholy hour, and then some**

He's torn from his reverie-_trance, more like_-when he realizes the office is silent. No pacing. No lecture. Which his weird, because he didn't think he'd been so far gone thatthat he would have missed her wind down.

He looks up, expecting to meet her stern glare, only to be surprised when he finds her staring at him, her own shoulders sagging, head cocked, face contorted into her own sad smile.

Her eyes look as tired as he feels.

That, for some reason, has more of an effect on him than all the rest.

"Look. I know that I shouldn't have," he begins, only to be cut off.

"I'm not interested in your apologies, Potter."

_Since when_? He wisely keeps that thought to himself, and asks, "Ma'am?" _Keep it simple James. The fewer syllables, the better._

"For once, I do not want your apologies. You were in the wrong, but I do understand."

He can't keep the disbelief from his voice, "_You do_?"

She ignores his question and counters with one of her own. "What is it they were saying?

"Lily." It is enough of an explanation as he feels he needs to give.

"I don't see Miss Evans here, in my office, beaten half unconscious, dripping blood onto my rug."

He looks down, _as if she'd be lying or something_, and, _fuck, _there are small pools of blood forming at his feet. Pools, plural, because he is-of course-bleeding from more than one place. He hadn't noticed.

"Take this." She hands him a cool, wet rag and waits patiently, for an angry McGonagall, while he cleans himself up as best as he can. As soon as she deems him clean enough, she vanishes the rag back into the abyss, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

They stare at each other for a long moment before she prompts, "Out with it, then."

_Right. Explanation. _

But something, for the second time that night, snaps in his brain. Words tumble out, tangled, messy, thudding to the ground before he is aware of the weight or the consequences. He is too tired to care, really, so he finds himself, quite by accident, asking the wrong question.

"Do you know how many times a day I hear the word _mudblood_, professor?"

Without waiting for a response, he continues. "Too damn many. Once is too many, but you've seen the reports. Do you know how bleeding exhausting it is to _dock_ _points?_"

He's pacing now, his own feet stomping lines into the floor. And he laughs mirthlessly, not bothering to keep the derision from his voice before pressing on, "_Points_! As it if that makes any damn difference in the world to them! As if _anything_ matters to them but being prejudiced, _wanking_ bastards who think they're better than everyone else because their blood is _pure_. It's fucking not. She's better than any of them. They fucking know it, too."

"_Potter_."

He doesn't let her get a word in edgewise just yet, but he does take the hint-the warning in her voice always did have the subtlety of a bludger-and shifts his monologue slightly more towards an explanation. "I was finishing up patrol and I ran into him-just the one. That…_bastard_ said that Evans, Lily, was a special target. Which we _knew_, after Christmas, we both knew we were targets. You know that. But he- Professor, the _shit _he was saying. He's a sick bastard. You know what they're doing to muggleborns now? The women? They're fucking _raping _them."

"That hasn't been reported in the Prophet."

"_That doesn't mean it's not happening_."

"You're right." She concedes, but then prompts, "Continue on, Mr. Potter, but mind your mouth."

"_That's _the shite he was saying. About Lily. _Lily. _And, he called her a _mudblood_ _cunt-" _He glances at her, sees her flinch. _Good. _He carries on, _"_-and -and I'm supposed to take points for _that_? You cannot honestly stand there, Professor, and tell me to _take points _and _file a report_ for that as if it's going to make a fucking damn bit of difference in the world!"

"Potter, did throwing punches make a damn bit of difference in the world?"

It's his turn to wince. She has a point, of course she does. He is forced to concede, "No." But he didn't have to like it.

"Then why on earth did you do it?"

"I couldn't _not. _I can't _not._"

"That's bull, Potter. You _could_, you _can_. They're tryingto provoke you. They want a reaction."

"Well, it's bloody working, alright?" He shouts at her this time, rather that the room in general. He knows he's crossed a line. Her entire body straights: her shoulders unwrinkled to her full height; her mouth straightens into a razor thin line; her palms flatten out on her desk, as if they've been ironed.

He's realizes, too late, that his outbursts have probably made his situation much, much worse.

_Fuck. _

He sits down, spent, and anyway, his head is reeling, and waits for his verdict.

"Three months."

Fucking harsh, McGee, he thinks, but he knows he deserves it. He is head boy after all, but, still, three months? For the first time tonight, he keeps himself in check-_mostly_-and acknowledges this with a curt nod and, "Fine."

"_Potter?"_

"Three months' detention, right? Will they be here, or-"

She cuts across him, "I'm not going to give you a detention."

He's confused, and says before he can stop himself, "You don't have to pity me, professor, simply because I got my arse kicked."

_Shut up. Bloody hell, idiot, do you want detention?_

There is certainly no pity in her voice when she confirms, "I _don't_ pity you, Potter. You threw punches, you deserved that bit. You don't deserve detention, though. Or perhaps you do, but I am-against my better judgment, going to refrain from giving you one. At any rate, you don't deserve any of the rest of it."

Her voice softens as she adds, "Neither of you do."

It takes a moment before he can find his voice. "Ma'am? Thank you for that. But…three months? All due respect, but what are you talking about?"

"You have three months left until graduation."

"Don't I know it."

"Clearly not, Potter, since your normally _brilliant_ mind couldn't make the connection. What are your post-graduation plans?"

"Plans?" He asks, rather stupidly, for she responds in kind. "Did those hard knocks affect your hearing, Potter?"

"No. Maybe, actually, on the hard knocks. After Hogwarts though? I just-I don't know. I thought I did. But I don't know now." And then, quite suddenly, he does know exactly, _exactly _what he wants to do. So he says, "Do _something _about this. All of it. _Anything_. I can't _not_."

She nods, "You may well get your chance. For now, however, you need to be the better man."

"That's shite advice, Professor." _Bleeding hell, you idiot. _He can't help it though, it _is _shite advice.

She's just as matter of fact in her response, and it strikes him, quite suddenly, that her frankness is one of his favorite things about her. "Do it anyway. The more you give in, you surely know, the more they'll goad you both."

"I can't protect her."

"Miss Evans can protect herself."

"In here, yes." Bile rises to his throat; he swallows it down. "But it's really fucking awful out there right now."

She sighs in acknowledgment and says the only thing she can, "I know."

"It's going to get worse." He's asking, really, which is ridiculous, because he knows it's true. But he needs her to say it, if only to know that he's not mad for being so fucking scared.

"Yes. Potter, it is."

His hands are in his face, _again_, and he can feel that damn exhaustion creeping in, _again_. The adrenaline is long gone.

"This is going to sound completely contradictory, Potter, but I want you to do two things."

"Ma'am?

"Keep your chin up and your head down, alright?"

"_Professor_-"

"Potter, if you tell me it's shite advice, I'll give you detention, since you really, apparently, miss me. It's a shite situation. _I know._ We're all doing the best we can."

"It's not enough though."

"You're right. It's not, but it's got to be."

"_Professor_?"

"_Potter_?"

"Thank you."

"Go on, then, get to bed. Straight to bed."

He rises from his chair. He's about to salute, the way he always used to, but he doesn't have it in him. Instead, he asks the same old question: "Do you, by chance, have any biscuits tonight?"

The corner of her mouth twitches, just as he'd hoped it would. She's only mildly reproving when she shakes her head, "Afraid not. I don't keep them stocked like I used to. I'd rather hoped we were past this, that I wouldn't see you in here like this again."

"That's a shame. But you won't. See me in here like this again, I mean."

"Good."

"Three months. And then..."

"It's not my place to say. But I'm telling you as your Head of House, as your Professor, and as someone, Potter, who is _on your side: _keep your fists-and your wand-to yourself. Chin up."

"And head down…"

"Yes. Keep your head down. Three months."

"And then what?"

"You'll see."

"That's a very _Dumbledore _thing to say, Professor."

She smiles at this, but doesn't offer any explanation.

Instead, she opens her office door and pats his shoulder, twice, as he limps his way out.


End file.
